The Eastern Silt Creek ran gray through a steep gorge, carrying waste from the mountain and runoff from the lower smelting furnaces. A chain bridge crossed it eighty feet above the water. Its iron links had rusted red. They groaned every time the wind moved the oak planks.
Pei Jing waited at the west end, inside the hollow of a dead chestnut tree. Three beats sounded from the watchtowers up the slope. The night watch had just called midnight.
Eight lanterns came onto the bridge in pairs. Their light shook across the planks. The men who carried them wore the black leather and bronze scales of the Disciplinary Hall. Each had a willow-leaf sword and a copper whistle tied to the Cloud-Swallowing Grand Array.
Four of them were at Early Foundation, three were at Mid Foundation, and the leader was at Peak. The leader’s square jaw and scar matched Gao Ren’s description in the gate patrol register.
Halfway across the bridge, Gao looked down at the brass compass in his hand.
“Hold.”
The patrol stopped. Seven hands went to sword hilts. Gao tapped the compass. The needle swung, then pointed west toward the stone at the end of the bridge. Pylon 15 was buried beneath it.
